Sherlolly Appreciation Week 2017
by keeptheotherone
Summary: My contributions to the aforementioned celebration on tumblr. Basically a one-shot ficlet collection.
1. Exactly Her Type

A/N: Day one, head canon prompt: first meeting

* * *

Molly Hooper looked up when the doors opened and smiled as her favorite detective inspector, Gregory Lestrade, entered the morgue.

"Hello, Molly."

"Good morning, Greg. Here about the Lancaster case?"

He nodded. "Brought in a consultant for this one–I hope that's okay?"

Molly shrugged as she moved towards the coolers. "Mrs. Lancaster isn't going to know the difference."

"Right."

She heard the doors swish open and turned to greet what she assumed would be a middle-aged, nondescript professional … only to find exactly her type: tall, dark, and gorgeous. She gaped.

"Molly, this is Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock, meet Dr. Molly Hooper, the world's sweetest pathologist."

"Um, uh, he-hello," Molly said, sticking out her hand to shake.

Sherlock Holmes didn't take it, instead looking her up and down with sea-blue (green?) eyes. "Youngest pathologist in St. Barts' history, graduated top of your class, skipped … two years, one in primary school and one in secondary. You live alone with one recently acquired American shorthair cat, maintain a juvenile wardrobe and hairstyle to counteract the darkness of your chosen profession–" His eyes narrowed. "Chosen because someone died, someone close to you … your father?– and have an aversion to gherkins."

Belatedly, Molly realized her hand still extended over Mrs. Lancaster's bloated corpse and tucked it behind her back.

"Um, y-yes, but–"

But he wasn't listening. Bent over the body at an alarming distance without PPE, he seemed absorbed by the woman's right ear.

Molly turned to Greg. _What?_

"Just give him a chance," Greg said in an undertone. "He notices things no one else does. I've never seen anything like it."

 _I've never seen anyone like **him**_ , Molly thought. Tall and lean–too lean, her doctor's eyes noticed, taking in the sharp cheekbones, the prominent sternal notch visible in his open collar, the gap between cuff and wrist, the way his shirt bunched with extra fabric at the waist. He had long legs (those were _great_ jeans), dark curly hair that made her palms actually itch to touch it, large hands graceful despite their size, and a blasé attitude about dead bodies she immediately found refreshing.

Even though Mrs. Lancaster distinctly _wasn't_.

Molly chuckled quietly at her own joke, watching him move around the body with quick, jerky movements. The small magnifying glass trembled slightly as he held it over the dead woman's umbilicus. She frowned, putting the details together. Was he high? Surely Greg wouldn't be working with a junkie. She stepped protectively towards Mrs. Lancaster, moving around the slab to get a better look at Sherlock's face … especially his pupils.

"Swab, please," he said without looking up, extending one long-fingered hand.

Molly scrambled to comply, nearly knocking over the jar and making quite a racket as she replaced its metal lid.

"Slide."

Who did he think she was, his personal lab assistant?

She fetched a slide.

"Prep this," he ordered, handing her the now-soiled swab.

"Sherlock," Greg said in a reproving voice.

He looked up with a blank expression.

"This is Dr. Hooper's morgue," Greg said.

"You have a lab too, don't you?" Sherlock asked.

"Y-yes, up–" She swallowed, disconcerted by those–cerulean? malachite?–eyes. "Upstairs."

"Well then, what's the problem?" He turned back to the body without waiting for an answer.

Greg sighed. "Molly, do you mind?"

"No, not at all, but I already–"

Sherlock's razor-sharp gaze focused on her, giving her a clear look at his pupils. Not high; but not long ago, either.

"What did you find?" he said.

"The normal skin flora, denim-blue cotton fibers most likely from a pair of Levi's, and algae consistent with a marshy ecosystem but not the Thames estuary. She has the same microorganisms in her ears and nose, but no water in her lungs. The body was disposed of in the water, but she wasn't drowned."

Sherlock merely hummed, but Molly had the feeling he was impressed nonetheless and felt a flicker of pride.

Wait, why did she care about this junkie upstart's ordinary opinion? She was on the Royal College of Pathologists' specialist register, thank you very much!

Although those cheekbones really were spectacular….

"Molly? Molly?"

"Hmm? Oh!" She jumped when she realized the detective inspector had caught her staring and flushed. "Yes, what? What do you need?"

"You've done quite enough. I'll take it from here."

Greg watched Sherlock leave with an exasperated expression. "Well, I'm glad I told him to be nice. Who knows what he would have said otherwise? Thanks, Molly. See you later."

"Bye," Molly said, feeling somewhat like she'd just played half-a-dozen rounds of Ring Around the Rosie. On a ship.

She hoped Sherlock Holmes would solve the case … and that Greg would take him to lunch as payment. That boy needed feeding up.


	2. Every Day With You

A/N: Day two, head canon prompt: first date. There's a reference here to my fic _The One After Sherlock Gets High_.

* * *

"I really don't understand what's taking you so long," Sherlock grumbled from his place on Molly's sofa.

She appeared around the corner, hands busy putting in her earrings.

"It's our first date, Sherlock," she said, disappearing again as soon as the jewelry was placed. "I want it to be special."

"What are you talking about?"

She returned with a small jeweled handbag and crossed the sitting room to the entry, digging in her worn black-and-white-striped work satchel for her purse. "Special, you know, memorable. Besides, I will be ready by seven. You were half an hour early."

Sherlock waved a careless hand. "I was in the neighborhood."

She gave him the soft smile that meant, _that's not true, but it's okay. I can see you_. He forced himself to focus on the matter at hand rather than the admittedly special appearance of his … girlfriend (the word was still difficult for Sherlock to wrap his mind around, much less his tongue, but it made Molly happy).

"I'm talking about the first part. The 'first date' part."

Molly shooed Toby away from his investigation of her open bag. "What do you mean?"

"It's not our first date."

She stopped. "It's not?"

He frowned. How could she be so observant one minute and so clueless the next? "Of course it's not."

"Well…." She still hadn't moved, and Toby was halfway inside the satchel now, his tail twitching. "What was?"

"Which time?"

"What do you mean which time!"

"Are we fighting?"

Molly stood up straight and crossed her arms. "Not yet."

Sherlock cleared his throat. "Well, there was that time we watched the sunrise from the roof of Bart's on a hospital sheet with cranberry juice and lemonade."

"That was the morning you jumped, Sherlock. We both thought it might be the last time you saw the sun."

"And … that one phone call in the Diogenes Club."

Molly softened. That had been the summer before he came back, when both he and Mycroft knew the game was heating up. Mycroft's concession to allow him to speak with Molly had told Sherlock more than he wanted to know about what his brother thought of his chances.

"As wonderful as it was to hear from you, one does not go on a date with the interested party's older brother. At least not after the age of twelve."

Sherlock scowled. No wonder she had gone off and got engaged to Meat Dagger–she hadn't understood! He played his trump card. "And the day of cases when I came back."

She looked down. "Yeah. That's–that's why I didn't have fish and chips with you, you know. Because it felt too much like a date."

He'd had enough social skills to work that one out.

"You knew I was engaged. You couldn't possibly have expected me to consider that a date. Besides, you were working."

Sherlock's heart sank. "It doesn't count as a date if we're working?" That would require a significant amount of replanning in his mind palace.

Molly opened her mouth, then closed it. "We can talk about that later," she said. "Are there any more?"

Still unnoticed by his mistress, Toby hopped down with an unidentifiable, presumably organic, wad in his mouth and proceeded to gnaw it under the safety of the entryway's tufted bench.

"What about the day you brought the burned hand to my flat?" Sherlock said.

She flushed, and he gave her a slow smile that deepened her color.

"That wasn't planned."

"You planned to come over," he said, closing the distance between them. "And do … something … you knew I would like."

Her eyes widened with his every step. "You'd been in hospital. I was babysitting."

He didn't dignify that feeble protest with a reply. "Every day with you is special." He leaned down to kiss her, and when Molly slipped her hands behind his neck, he knew all was forgiven.

She didn't even protest about having to redo her lipstick.


	3. Danger Night

A/N: Day three, canon-compliant prompt: season two.

* * *

Umbrella in hand, Mycroft Holmes followed his brother into the St. Bartholomew's Hospital Morgue.

"Had her brought here, your 'home from home,'" he said as they turned the corner into the examination area.

Miss Hooper (she was a physician, but dropping her title annoyed Sherlock so it was habit for Mycroft) was already there. Although she had answered her phone immediately and his summons without protest, she'd obviously been to a party tonight, despite the hideous holiday jumper underneath her lab coat. Her eye makeup was dramatic, her nails painted (immensely impractical for everyday in her line of work), and her hair was down and had been curled, though it was brushed out now. So, a party that hadn't gone well … Sherlock's party?

As Sherlock and Molly faced each other across the white-sheeted body, Mycroft thought maybe calling her hadn't been such a good idea, a doubt reinforced when Sherlock spoke in a gentle voice usually reserved for Mummy.

"You didn't need to come in, Molly."

"That's okay. Everyone else was busy with … Christmas."

Her response was predictably self-effacing, yet palpably awkward. Definitely Sherlock's party, and Sherlock had definitely been the reason she left early. She dropped his gaze and rushed on.

"The face is sort of–bashed up. So it–it might be a bit difficult."

Still, she remained predictably considerate of Sherlock, the exact reason Mycroft had had Irene Adler brought here from the Cotswolds, where her body was found. He wasn't certain of the exact nature of his brother's relationship with The Woman, but he knew Sherlock had been attracted to her.

Disclaimer given, Miss Hooper pulled the sheet back to shoulder-height and both men turned their attention to the woman on the slab.

"That's her, isn't it?"

"Show me the rest of her," Sherlock said.

Miss Hooper started, then complied. Sherlock made one laser-sharp glance down the woman's naked body, an equally quick one back again, and confirmed.

"That's her." Job done, he spun on his heel and left the lab, leaving Miss Hooper staring after him. Equally shocked, although he hid it better, Mycroft thanked her and turned to go when Miss Hooper's questions called him back.

"Who is she?"

 _A blackmailing dominatrix who got in over her head and apparently slept with my brother_.

"How did Sherlock recognize her from …" She paused, searching for an appropriately polite word. "Not her face?"

 _By spending an inordinate amount of time in her naked presence in full light_. Being thorough, as both Holmes brothers were, Sherlock would have needed more than a quick glance while undressing or a grope under the covers. He would've had to have memorized every curve, mole, and scar before being confident enough to identify a dead body with a "bashed up" face.

But Mycroft was kinder than his brother and said nothing, giving Miss Hooper what he hoped was a sympathetic smile.

It was definitely a danger night.


	4. Natural Consequences

A/N: No excuses, really-I throw myself on your mercy. These twelve-hour shifts are killing me. The last day I was able to write before I went back to work that week: day four, canon prompt season three. An outtake from _The One After Sherlock Gets High._

* * *

Molly noticed the smell before she was even in the door. Cat poo, lots of it. And she knew just which roommate to blame.

"SHERLOCK HOLMES!" she bellowed, dumping her satchel and rounding the corner, only to slip in her haste ... on something slick and squishy that definitely didn't belong there.

Molly sighed and looked down. Of course this would be the day she _didn't_ forget to take off her shoe protectors before she left the morgue.

"Oh. You're home."

It was so unlike Sherlock to say something so exceedingly obvious that it distracted Molly from how to step out of her shoes without contaminating either her hands or her opposite shoe.

Then again, it was so unlike Sherlock to be wearing dishwashing gloves and carrying a spray bottle of cleaner and a roll of kitchen paper.

"What on earth _happened_?" Molly took in the frankly alarming amount of feline feces visible from this point in her flat with growing horror. "Where's Toby? Is this all from him?"

A loud meowing sounded from the direction of the bathroom. Molly didn't move, unwilling right now to face what was sure to be more of the same.

"Toby's in the bathroom," Sherlock said unnecessarily. "And yes, this is all from him, as incredible as it seems."

"What on _earth_ did you _feed_ him?" Molly's vocabulary was limited by her shock. The mess was everywhere-the entry tile; multiple patches on the sitting room carpet, the sofa, her desk chair; the kitchen island (gross sobbing); and a trail of smears leading to the bathroom door.

Sherlock shifted his gaze. "I can't tell you."

The rage welled up like a ground spring after snow melt and drowned her voice.

"I'll take care of it," he said in a rush. "You won't have to do a thing. I'll pay to have the carpet cleaned. And the furniture."

"And the vet bill!"

"Why a vet bill?"

"Sherlock!" Molly's voice was so shrill it hurt her own ears, but it was worth it to see Sherlock wince and his shoulders hunch. "If Toby is having this much diarrhea, he's obviously ill! He could be dehydrated. He's only five point four kilos!"

"Seven."

She gave him her best "don't start with me" glare.

"Sorry," he muttered. "But I know why Toby's sick, and I assure you, it will pass."

This statement was accompanied by a loud, prolonged splattering sound from the direction of the bathroom, followed by a pitiful "mew."

Molly buried her face in her hand to hide the laugh that threatened. It wasn't funny. It really wasn't funny. When she had herself under control, she sidestepped her way to the kitchen. Toby's bowl was not just empty, but freshly washed. Undaunted, she opened the cupboard under the sink only to find the rubbish bin completely empty–not only had Sherlock destroyed the evidence, he'd failed to replace the bin bag. She sighed and turned, hands on her hips.

"You threw it in the skip, didn't you?"

"A fifteen minutes' walk with eight random turns. I doubt I could find it again."

Molly doubted that, but all she said was, "Well, I'm not sorting through a skip when I'm not being paid."

"I deduced that."

Another well-practiced glare.

"I mean, er … why don't you go out for dinner?" He stripped off his gloves and reached in his back pocket, pulling out a few bank notes. "Call a friend. My treat."

Molly looked at the disaster that was her beloved flat and surrendered. "All right. I'm calling Meena. I'll stay at her place tonight, and she'll have a spare pair of scrubs for me to wear to work tomorrow. And when I get home, I expect to find a perfectly healthy cat and a perfectly clean flat. Is that understood?"

"Perfectly."

* * *

Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief as the door closed behind Molly Hooper. He was just trying to help, but he had calculated a ninety-four percent chance Molly would disagree, hence his refusal to give any details. But the next time Toby ate several yards of yarn, Sherlock would not expedite the elimination process with laxatives.


End file.
